Jim Bigelow winced as Mr. Edmond Terwilliger’s bellowing voice roared out at him from across the man’s desk.
“What in the hell am I paying you people for?” Terwilliger thundered, his face reddening with emotion. “That goddamned Paxton gang is acting like the Northwest and Canadian Railroad is a delivery service for them.”
Bigelow tried to bring a calmer atmosphere into the office by keeping his manner cool. “Believe me, Mr. Terwilliger, there ain’t nobody in the whole detective force that’s not just as concerned as you are about this situation.”
“You and those men of yours had goddamned well better be!” Terwilliger roared. He was a portly man with large mutton chop sideburns and a shiny bald head that glistened with tiny beads of perspiration. “The stockholders aren’t going to keep me on as president of this railroad unless it shows a profit. Having our shipments delayed and looted on a weekly basis does not keep us in the black.” He growled under his breath as he angrily fished a cigar out of the box in front of him. “And neither does throwing good money after bad. And that’s exactly what we’re doing in paying you and your staff. And you can count on one thing. I guarantee that you and those detectives of yours will go before I do, Bigelow!”
Terwilliger’s office reflected his personality. It was spacious and over furnished with heavy velvet drapes with thick fringes. Several ornate overstuffed chairs and a large sofa dominated the room as did his huge mahogany desk.
“I’m sorry you feel that way, Mr. Terwilliger,” Bigelow said. He was a thin, intense man with a hawk nose and serious eyes. Wind burned and rangy, he obviously spent most of his time outdoors, but there was a controlled quietness about him. “And you’re wrong if you think we’re not concerned. Our professional reputations here are as much at stake as yours is. I got plenty of experience in this line o’ work. Let me point out to you that the problem faced by the NW&C Railroad is a particularly difficult one because of the countryside we’re operating in. The mountains make it easy for train bandits to make getaways. And it’s hard to trail them up into the high country, too.”
“Then what the hell do you expect us to do? Give it up? Sell out? Cave in?” Terwilliger asked as he angrily puffed on the expensive cigar. “We worked too damned long and hard to do that. It took seven years of back break and heartache to get this far. Now that the last of the track is laid, it looks like we’ve lost after all. Is that what you think, Bigelow?”
“Of course not, sir,” Bigelow said.
“Can’t you at least stay with the damn trains and defend them?” the railroad president asked.
“The Paxton gang is big, sir,” Bigelow pointed out. “Even if we resisted to the death, they’d still be able to pull off the robberies.”
“So there’s nothing to be done, hey?”
“Yes, sir. There is something. I’ve given the matter some long and serious thought and I’ve come up with a solution.”
Now Terwilliger began to calm down. He had faith in the railroad detective. Bigelow had been there since the beginning, fighting Indians, rivals, and even the weather that had ranged from frigid blizzards to strength-sapping heat. But now it seemed the situation had gotten completely out of hand. “Very well, Bigelow. What’s your idea for bringing this situation to a satisfying and permanent close?”
“Milo Paxton and his boys head for the high country and split up. They stay up there in that wilderness ’til they decide it’s time to pull another job.”
“We know that,” Terwilliger said. “But nobody’s been able to find the rascals because they’re spread out all over the mountains. That sonofabitch has seen to that. Paxton’s a clever bastard and as oily as the main rod on a locomotive.”
“Yes, sir. But there’s two fellows I know that can do what several posses have failed to do,” Jim Bigelow said. “And that’s to track Paxton and his bandits to their favorite haunts.”
Terwilliger made an angry gesture by pointing his cigar straight at Bigelow’s face. “Why hasn’t this idea occurred to you before?”
“It takes time to figure things out, Mr. Terwilliger. Things are complicated in a new territory.” He adopted an accusing tone. “And we never stay in one place long enough to really get to know it.”
“We’re situated permanendy now,” Terwilliger said. “And all the facts are in.” Another thought came to his mind. “If the outlaws are hoarding the loot, do you suppose these fellows could also retrieve our funds?”
“These boys can not only recover the money,” Bigelow said confidently, “but they can also bring back any surviving gang members.”
“Seems like a big order for only two men,” Terwilliger said as a doubtful tone crept back into his voice.
“Like I said, Paxton’s boys spread out between jobs,” Bigelow said. “They won’t have to take ’em on all at once. Just one and two at a time. Anyhow, to get ’em you have to know where to find ’em. Them boys I’m talking about know ever’ inch o’ that country.” He leaned forward. “There ain’t nobody better to get for the job, Mr. Terwilliger. And they’ve worked for us before.”
“What? When?”
“A coupla years back,” Bigelow said. “They hired on as hunters for the work crews to keep ’em supplied with fresh meat. Then they helped us out when the Colorado Shortline sent hired guns out to stop us.”
Terwilliger puffed thoughtfully on his cigar for a few moments, staring through the cloud of smoke at the railroad detective. “It still seems like a hell of a long shot. We’ve sent some pretty big groups of armed men out to bring in Milo Paxton and his boys.”
“This is the kind of job where two damn good men are better’n a whole herd of ordinary gunmen. Remember, the two I’m talking about are expert trackers and know the mountains,” Bigelow said. “And they’re dogged enough to stay at the job ’til it’s done, mean enough to do what killing is necessary, and honest enough to bring back all the money they find.”
Terwilliger finally displayed a smile, but it was sarcastic. “But are they dumb enough to do it cheap?” Now Bigelow grinned. “Yeah.”
Terwilliger laughed. “By God, Bigelow! We might just hire ’em. Who are they?”
“Lefty McNally and the Kiowa Kid,” Bigelow said. “I don’t rightly know where they are at the moment, but I’m sure I can send a few telegrams around ’til I find out.”
‘Well, Bigelow,” Terwilliger said. ‘You’re finally making sense. Tell me more about these pals o’ yours.” He pushed the box of cigars across the desk. “Enjoy a good smoke.”
Jim Bigelow helped himself to one, then began talking about the two young men known as Lefty and the Kiowa Kid.
A dozen years before Terwilliger and Bigelow were having their conversation in the railroad president’s office, an event of historic significance had occurred at the army post of Fort Sill in Indian Territory.
The great Kiowa Indian tribe, along with their Comanche brethren, gave up the brave fight and decided to travel the “White Man’s Road.” Those magnificent warriors, forced to bow to their inevitable fate, were moved onto a reservation between the Washita and Red Rivers in the vicinity of Anadarko.
The Kiowas were characteristic of the plains Indians. Nomadic and without agriculture, they’d lived for generations in tepees, spending their time following the buffalo herds while carrying on their traditions as warriors and hunters. Their final glory in that violent culture peaked after they acquired horses from the Spanish. It was as savage mounted troopers they had carried on their last fight against overwhelming odds. It broke their hearts but not their deep pride.
There was also a strongly spiritual side to the Kiowa people. They fervently and deeply believed that they had a supernatural power which manifested itself in dreams and visions. Part of their religion was based on “Ten Medicine Bundles.” Their faith said these totems protected and guided them.
The bundles consisted of items of animal, vegetable, or mineral origin that had appeared in the dreams or visions of respected warriors. If the medicine man deemed the occurrence of a truly spiritual and holy significance, the item dreamed of was placed in one of the ten bundles. Although any tribal member could have a bundle—or a smaller medicine bag to hang around his neck—those particular ten were specifically holy and were used in conjunction with the annual Sun Dance.
That most holy of ceremonies was conducted after a period of fasting and self-purification endured by adult Kiowa males who desired to experience the dreams and visions considered necessary to guide the tribe. After the cleansing liturgy, those participating in the dance would do so around a sacred post until they fell into a trance. It was considered the highest of honors to have proven oneself holy enough to successfully perform the ritual.
The names of some of the most fervent practitioners of the Sun Dance still live in the history of the Kiowa people: Gui-Pah-Go (Lone Wolf), Set-Tain-Te (White Bear), Zepko-Ette (Big Bow), Gui-Tain (Young Wolfs Heart), and Tay-Nay-Angopte (Eagle Striking With Talons).
But even this deeply spiritual side of their makeup failed to save the Kiowas from the crushing inroads of civilization. Herded into the confines of a reservation, they came under the close scrutiny of Indian agents and the United States Army.
One of the soldiers assigned to administer to the subdued Native Americans was Post Commissary Sergeant Terrence McNally. This professional soldier resided at Fort Sill with his wife Katy and their five children. The middle and most feisty of the children, was a twelve-year-old boy named Liam Norvall. With such a fancy Irish appellation, it was easy to see why he would prefer to be known by his nickname of “Lefty.” His father called him that because he was the only southpaw among the kids.
Lefty was a troublesome lad whose dad’s heavy army belt laid across his bottom on plenty of occasions. The boy wasn’t exactly mean, but when something went wrong—whether it be a broken cookie jar or a note sent home from the post school by the angry teacher—Lefty was always involved. In a day when “army brats.” were particularly notorious, the boy was a classic example of a misbehaving garrison child.
Lefty’s existence—long periods of boredom broken by violent moments of physical punishment from his father—went along pretty much the same for a long time. Then an important event occurred in his life on a day when he was participating in one of his favorite pastimes—fishing when he should have been in school.
It was a warm spring day in that year of 1876. The prairie country had awakened slowly but luxuriously from the long winter. Meadowlarks sung out from their ground nests, prairie dogs scampered in and out of their burrows and the colorful splash of sunflowers, bluebonnets, and goldenrods added color to the balmy atmosphere. Letting the warmth ease over him like an invisible blanket, Lefty dozed on the banks of Cache Creek. He felt deliciously wicked knowing that his classmates were reciting their lessons under the stern supervision of the bad-tempered post schoolmaster while he whiled away the hours in a pleasant pastime. As usual, he gave absolutely no thought to the consequences of his behavior. This was a trait that was to stay with him for the rest of his days. Happy in spirit and relaxed in his heart, Lefty enjoyed his light nap.
Suddenly nudged to wakefulness by instinct, Lefty opened his eyes and turned his head toward a nearby redbud tree. An Indian boy, about his age but shorter and heavier, stood there calmly looking at him. Lefty was slightly annoyed. “What’re you looking at, you ol’ Injun you?”
The other youngster, obviously a Kiowa, said nothing.
“There’s lots o’ bank to this creek,” Lefty said. “Go on and find some other place to hang around.” With that he settled back and closed his eyes. But only for a few moments. Feeling the other still gazing at him, Lefty sat up. “Are you deaf or something?”
The Indian remained silent but showed a slight smile.
Lefty, his Irish temper simmering a bit, got to his feet and ambled over to the Indian. “Didn’t nobody ever tell you it ain’t polite not to answer other folks when they’re a-talking at you?”
The Indian maintained his cheerful silence.
Lefty pushed him, making the other boy stumble back. The Kiowa boy thought that seemed like a pretty good game. He stepped forward and gave Lefty a shove. Lefty retaliated and the Indian boy repeated the act.
Lefty figured he’d had enough. “You asked for it, feller.” He leaped forward and grabbed the young Kiowa in a headlock, rocking back and forth. The Indian struggled a bit before he broke the hold, then he quickly slipped around Lefty and grabbed his waist. Lifting high, he threw the white youngster onto the ground.
Lefty got up and dusted himself off. He made a quick evaluation of the situation. “Want to fish?” he wisely asked. “I got an extra line and hook.” He walked over to his jacket and pulled the items out of one of the pockets. “Here.”
Within five minutes both boys were settled down side by side, their lines in the water, fishing together as if they’d been friends all their lives. They spent the rest of the day like that. The only time they moved was to yank in their lines to pull in a struggling catfish or crappie. Finally, with the western sky reddening, a distant bugle call from Fort Sill sounded. Lefty imitated it. “That’s mess call,” he said. “Time to eat. And time to go home.”
The Indian boy seemed to understand that his companion was leaving. He pulled in his line and wound it up while the other did the same.
Finally Lefty picked up the line that held all their caught fish. “Some of these is yours. You want ’em? Or do you want to come on home and my mall fry ’em up.” He waited a few moments while the other boy simply looked at him. “You got to be the dumbest feller I ever seen.” Lefty sighed. “Well, c’mon. Let’s go.
The Indian seemed to understand. He silently followed Lefty up the creek bank and across the open country toward the garrison. The two plodded down the row of houses used by the noncommissioned officers and their families. Finally they reached one of the larger ones.
“My pa is a post staff NCO,” Lefty said proudly. “That’s why we got a better house than some o’ the others.” He led his new friend around the back and into the kitchen.
If Katy McNally was surprised to see the Indian boy, she didn’t show it. Since there was no meat for the evening meal, she happily accepted the fish. “Sure now and they’ll go fine wit’ the corn and taters,” she said in her brogue.
“The Injun helped catch ’em,” Lefty said.
“Then it’s only right we be asking him to jine us,” Mrs. McNally said. She looked at the dark-skinned boy. “Would ye be liking that then?”
“He don’t talk,” Lefty explained.
“O’ course he talks,” Mrs. McNally said. “He just don’t do it in English.”
“Anyhow,” Lefty said. “He understands ever’thing. He’ll stay.”
The other McNally children crowded into the kitchen to stare at their guest. As with all children, there was no animosity in their frank curiosity, but they were not exactly polite either.
“Izzat funny Injun gonna stay fer supper?” one of the older boys asked.
“Sure and he is,” Mrs. McNally answered. “And ye’ll stop looking at him like he just come down from the moon.” She gestured at them. “Out ye go ’cept the girls. We’ve the fish to scale now.”
The boys went into the dining room in time for Post Commissary Sergeant McNally to step grandly into the house. He took off his kepi and hung it on the hat rack mounted by the door. “Well,” he said spotting the Indian. “Who’s the Kiowa kid then?”
“He’s a friend o’ Lefty’s,” Paddy, the older boy, answered.
“Him and me caught some fish today,” Lefty explained. “Ma and the girls is scaling ’em.”
Sergeant McNally smiled a wise Irish smile. “Well, now, that’ll be grand. And ye must be the fastest fishermen in the world.”
“How’s that?” Lefty asked.
“To have time to catch enough fish to feed this family and even invite a guest between the closing of school and mess call,” McNally said.
The other children snickered.
The one thing that wasn’t tolerated in the McNally household was lying to the patriarch. Lefty winced. It was time to pay the proverbial piper. “I played hooky.”
“Then it’s out the back,” McNally said pulling off his belt.
Lefty dutifully turned and walked through the house with his father following. The Indian boy, sticking close to his new friend, padded after them in his moccasins. When the trio reached the backyard, the young Kiowa was witness to the ritual of an erring boy getting a few correcting strokes of his father’s belt.
The Indian thought it some sort of test for adolescent boys. He noticed that in spite of the severity of the blows, his new friend made no other sound than an occasional grunt as the heavy leather descended on his backside.
“That’s the third time I’ve whipped ye that ye’ve not cried, Lefty me boy,” McNally said. He replaced his belt and announced, “I’ll not be whipping ye again, lad, but as sure as the devil breathes fire, I’ll make yer life miserable when ye go against me word.”
“Yes, Pa.”
The Kiowa boy had been right. It was a ritual.
The McNally family shared their table with the Indian youngster that evening. Although he spurned any efforts they made to get him to speak—or even grunt at them he was a pleasant enough guest in spite of his lack of table manners. Shoving the food in with both hands when not spearing it with his knife, he consumed three full platefuls before his appetite was satiated. At that moment, with a full belly, the Kiowa wiped his mouth across his sleeve. Then he stood up and abruptly left the house.
Sergeant McNally, leaning back in his chair, patted his fish-stuffed stomach. “Now what’s yer friend’s name, Lefty?”
“I don’t know, Pa,” Lefty answered. “He don’t talk much.”
“So I noticed,” Mrs. McNally said. She and the girls turned to the task of clearing the tables.
“Fetch me pipe and tobacco, Lefty me boy,” Sergeant McNally said. He waited for his son to get him the smoking implements. “I wonder,” he said filling the pipe, “if we’ll ever see that Kiowa kid again.”
That statement cinched the name for the Indian boy. He became known to the McNally clan—and eventually to their neighbors and others—as the Kiowa Kid.
The Indian got into the habit of eating two or three times a week with the McNallys. After a while this became an occurrence every evening as mutual affection developed between the Kiowa Kid and the family. With five other kids to feed, Sergeant and Mrs. McNally felt they could take on one more without too much of a strain. Lefty and the Kid developed a sincere fondness for each other, too, until the Irish-American boy felt closer to Kiowa than he did his own brothers.
As time passed, they learned more about Kiowa. He was a “breed,” the offspring of a Kiowa mother and a white buffalo hunter who had lived with the tribe from time to time. The McNallys also found out that Kiowa could speak passable English. And, as time passed, his skill in the tongue increased until he was as fluent— and ungrammatical—as Lefty.
The two boys, though physical opposites, were as temperamentally alike as twins. Lefty was tall and lean with straw-colored hair. Kiowa, on the other hand, was much shorter, more muscular and compact. He continued to wear his black hair in the braided style of his tribe. Later on, at Mrs. McNally’s insistence, he finally adopted more civilized dress, but the hairstyle stayed the same.
By the time Lefty and Kiowa reached manhood, they were as close as natural bothers, and it was as brothers that they struck out into the world together to make their fortunes and seek adventure.